somethings can’t be titled: village easter memories

As I reflect on the somber meaning of Good Friday and Holy Saturday, I’m hit with the reality that the day that follows Easter this year is not a joyful day, not for my family. I had a lot of emotions last year around this time, they came earlier, I think because Easter was earlier in the year. But this year while not as heavy as the previous year has also been heavy. A different kind of heavy, but somehow, still heavy. Last year was heavy with healing of layers upon layers of hurt, anger, and anger towards God that revealed doubt; a lack of trust, which has been rebuilt this year, stronger than ever, but heavy nonetheless.

As we sat around a table eating tacos and burritos at a local taco shop last night, contemplating the Good Friday service and worship experience sitting in a room with the disciples as they processed, verbalized, and grieved the loss of our Saviour. I mentioned that there has always been something about the season surrounding Easter that is very significant; marked almost.

As I read through the gospels’ accounts of the betrayal, trial and death of Jesus this morning, I was transported to a time when I was on an island surrounded by white sandy beaches and in the midst of a dramatic reenactment of the events surrounding Christ’s death. It has been a very long time since I thought about that, but in that moment I was there, watching the betrayal. Watching Peter cut of a soldier’s ear, watching Jesus heal the ear and watching Judas betray Jesus, and Pilate and Caiphas.

And then in search of this beach on google maps at my mom’s suggestion, I ended up in the village where I spent many of my early childhood days.

As I’m soaring over my Island Village home via Google Earth, my heart is heavy as I think of all the memories, all the moments, of my childhood and the weight of it all. So much good, and so much wonder. The weight isn’t sadness, though there is some. The weight is the significance. Of everything that happened in that one place and so many other places. It was in this very place that I first gave my heart to Jesus, after watching my first reenactment of the passion play on this exact grassy field. Right here. And it is one of a myriad of reasons why the Easter season means so much to me. I can’t totally express everything. Just to acknowledge the weight. And how I wish I could relive some of those moments one more time with my Dad.

Just playing, exploring, riding bikes, and dad’s motorcycle, and fishing for shrimp, swimming and playing in the warm ocean waters of the tropics. of the simplicity and the nightly lantern lightly rituals. Of fetching water from the well, and of watching a well dug deeper. Of watching the gleam in his eyes as he shared magic tricks or just made the village kids giggle.

I miss that.

And I’m allowed to miss that, and it’s not weird and it’s not obsessive. I just miss that. And I’m grateful for the tears and the sad songs. Because it means that I can feel and the loss is real.